


Burning Embers

by ScienceFantasy93



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is an idiot, Arthur is in total denial, But they're fine, Canon Divergent, M/M, Merlin knows what's what, Strong Language, everthing's fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28684674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceFantasy93/pseuds/ScienceFantasy93
Summary: It’s not something he would even ever bring up if they were still in Camelot. Merlin’s talent is an automatic death sentence if Arthur’s father ever finds out. Arthur may have discovered Merlin’s secret skillset by accident, but it’s come in handy once or twice. Well, more than that, but Arthur likes to forget that Merlin has saved his life. He doesn’t like dwelling upon the fact that Merlin has guided him back from the void more times than he can count. And he definitely doesn’t like thinking about the fact that he and Merlin once saved each other at the same time – that their bond was so strong and Merlin’s care for him so great that even though he was unconscious and trembling on death’s edge, his magic still reached out and caressed Arthur into safety.Or: Arthur is losing his mind and it's all Merlin's fault.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 115





	Burning Embers

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Merlin fic. I've been rewatching the show for the first time in years, and really got hooked on the Merlin/Arthur ship. Anyway, this is canon-divergent in that Arthur knows about Merlin's magic, but that's it. In my mind this takes place about halfway through the first season.
> 
> Enjoy!

Arthur is losing his mind and it’s all Merlin’s fault.  
  
It’s not your average loss of mind. It’s not the kind of going crazy that Arthur experiences when Merlin slacks off on mucking out the stables or lets his dinner get cold or doesn’t fold his socks the way he likes it (he hates it when Merlin just rolls them into balls. Fold and tuck, fold tuck). No. This is something else entirely, and it’s not the sort of thing Arthur understands.  
  
It all begins innocently enough. They’re on a hunting trip because the Camelot has felt a bit restricting lately, and the castle seems all stuffy with nobles kissing his father’s ass. If Arthur has to sit through one more royal feast with some lying count referring to his father as “your gracious majesty” and “my generous king”, Arthur will start chucking the wine goblets at the dumbass noble.  
  
So a hunting trip outside of Camelot seems like a good idea. He drags Merlin along because what the hell is he supposed to do without his manservant, incompetent and snarky though he may be? At least Merlin knows how to light a fire and can kind of put together a stew. Arthur has left his knights behind, because occasionally he likes to get away from all the different voices demanding his attention. At least Merlin doesn’t seem to crave Arthur’s attention. He’s just bound to Arthur through circumstance and reluctance, exactly the way Arthur likes it.  
  
Most of the time.  
  
“Rain’s coming.”  
  
Arthur grits his teeth because this is exactly the last thing he wants to hear.  
  
“With thunder and lightning.”  
  
Make that the second to the last thing he wants to hear.  
  
“We need to find shelter,” Merlin continues on, as though he’s the goddamn Crown Prince of Camelot and is in charge of this hunting trip. “I’m really not in the mood to get struck by lightning.”  
  
“So you _don’t_ want me to tie you to a tree?” Arthur retorts with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Then why the hell did I bring rope?”  
  
The look Merlin shoots him is so deadpan Arthur is honestly impressed. Not that he’s about to tell Merlin that though. Instead he lets out a long-suffering sigh so Merlin knows just what he thinks of the manservant’s whining. “It’s not going to rain. The sky has been crystal blue all day.”  
  
The gods or whoever controls the weather must hate Arthur because the clouds suddenly roll across the glimpse of sky he can catch through the thick trees.  
  
“I’m telling you, it’s going to storm,” Merlin insists. “I winkle in the rain like a prune. It’s not a pretty sight. I’d hate for your princely eyes to see me not looking my best.” He flashes Arthur a cheeky grin, which Arthur exchanges for a glare. Merlin is definitely not looking his best. He’s got a streak of dirt on his cheek, tree brambles tangled in his hair, and he smells of pitch and horse. He’s definitely not a sight for sore eyes. Except. Maybe he is. His bright blue eyes glitter with amusement, and his grin is ridiculously toothy. Really, Arthur shouldn’t keep looking. There’s nothing good to see.  
  
But somehow he can’t look away.  
  
“My princely eyes are used to you looking like a mess. Like right now, for example,” Arthur drawls. “You look as though you got into a fight with a mountain lion and the lion won.”  
  
Merlin doesn’t even look offended by this. Instead he seems to take it as a compliment. “You think I could fight a mountain lion and survive?”  
  
“The mountain lion realized how poor of a catch you are and let you go.”  
  
Merlin gasps, finally outraged, but before he can come back with some insolent response a low rumbling sounds. “The storm!”  
  
“There is no storm,” Arthur insists, because he’s a stubborn ass and he knows it, but dammit, he doesn’t want Merlin to be right just on principle. “All right? If there was a storm, we would have felt it coming yesterday.”  
  
This is not strictly true, but he wants Merlin to stop freaking out. Plus he’s really hoping there isn’t a storm, because he hates getting his hair wet.  
  
A flash of lightning erupts overhead, and a handful of seconds later thunder roars in the distance. And just like that, the sky opens up, and even with the dense canopy of trees, within minutes they’re soaked to the bone.  
  
Merlin blinks rain out of his eyes. “No storm, eh? So what would you call this? A bath? A sun shower?”  
  
“Let’s just find shelter,” Arthur growls. He’s never really in the mood for Merlin’s sarcasm, but now all he wants to do is step on it with his boot and stomp it down until it fades out entirely. Except that that wouldn’t be any fun, because Arthur isn’t sure what he would do without Merlin’s sarcasm. It’s a match for his. In fact, sometimes – not often, but once in a blue moon – Merlin can out-sass him. Not that he would ever admit it out loud.  
  
“Sun showers! _Yes_!” Merlin mock-cheers as they ride off in search of a cave Arthur recalls being nearby.  
  
Of course, his memory might be slightly faulty, because _nearby_ ends up being over an hour’s ride. By the time they’re huddled inside the cave with Merlin attempting a fire with the flint and steel, Arthur feels as though he’s just had a tub of water dumped on him. Again.  
  
“Hurry up,” Arthur groans. “What’s taking so long?”  
  
Merlin shoots him a look of annoyance. “Well, Sire,” he says, and Arthur knows he’s about to get a very snarky answer, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, being all royal and princely and above the problems that us mere mortals have to deal with, but it’s a teensy bit damp out.”  
  
“The flint and steel wasn’t in a waterproof bag?”  
  
“It got wet.”  
  
“The waterproof bag?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But it’s waterproof.”  
  
“It’s not designed to withstand the Great Flood.”  
  
“Well, dry it out.”  
  
“With _what_?” Merlin demands. “The fire I can’t get started? Sure, I’ll get right on that, Your Royal Highness, Sire.”  
  
Arthur notices that the only time Merlin uses any of his titles is when he’s being facetious. He sort of hates it. He sort of likes it. But he shouldn’t. He absolutely shouldn’t. And he doesn’t. Right? Right. Maybe.  
  
It’s fine. Everything’s fine.  
  
“I don’t know – is there anything we have that’s dry?”  
  
The second the question is out of his mouth, Arthur realizes just how stupid it is. But, he remembers, there is an alternative. “What about your…you know…your _talent_?”  
  
It’s not something he would even ever bring up if they were still in Camelot. Merlin’s _talent_ is an automatic death sentence if Arthur’s father ever finds out. Arthur may have discovered Merlin’s secret skillset by accident, but it’s come in handy once or twice. Well, more than that, but Arthur likes to forget that Merlin has saved his life. He doesn’t like dwelling upon the fact that Merlin has guided him back from the void more times than he can count. And he definitely doesn’t like thinking about the fact that he and Merlin once saved each other at the same time – that their bond was so strong and Merlin’s care for him so great that even though he was unconscious and trembling on death’s edge, his magic still reached out and caressed Arthur into safety.   
  
He doesn’t want to think about it. Consider it. The possibilities are too – no. There are no possibilities. What the fuck is he even thinking right now? He’s losing it. He’s losing his mind. Being trapped with a whiny Merlin would do that to anyone.  
  
In any case, Merlin’s magic is a last-resort type of thing. And it sure as hell isn’t supposed to be used in Camelot, though Arthur knows Merlin utilizes his magic actively. But out here in a secluded cave miles and miles away from the city, it feels safe. Like the world exists for them, and them alone.  
  
“You should get some rest,” Merlin says to Arthur, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “You’ve had a long ride. I’ll wake you once I get the food on.”  
  
Arthur has to bite back a smile. They have a rule that they never discuss Merlin’s magic directly, no matter where they are. And Merlin insists that Arthur never witness his usage of magic, just in case he’s ever caught and Uther decides to question his son. Merlin doesn’t want Arthur to lie. Arthur can’t help but think he would do so much more for Merlin than just simply lie to his father.  
  
And there’s his mind going again. Clearly Merlin is right, and he really is exhausted. He needs sleep.  
  
And so he wraps himself in his damp sleeping roll, leans against his horse, and closes his eyes, drifting off to the pounding of the rain against the cave’s walls.

* * *

The hunting trip lasts for two more days. By the following morning the storm has wrung itself out and the sun is shining once more. Arthur and Merlin take advantage of the return of pleasant weather, and Arthur determinedly pushes the trip out until he knows he’s one nudge away from getting a royal summons from his father. Assuming, of course, the messenger can even find him.  
  
Returning to Camelot and the castle does not make for a happy Arthur. He misses the wide expanse of the forest and the feeling of wind on his face and sun on his skin. And he misses something else, something that he can’t quite put his finger on. It seems to be a sensation, something like a feeling. But Arthur doesn’t like feelings so he doesn’t think on it too hard.  
  
It’s only when he bursts into Morgana’s quarters a couple weeks after the trip to make sure she’s aware that there is a foreign diplomat joining their dinner table tonight that he gathers an inkling of what that missing _thing_ is.  
  
Morgana and Gwen are sitting around the table, laughing uproariously with – oh god. _Merlin_. Merlin is spending his downtime with them. Merlin is joking around with them. Merlin is sitting there, with the first three buttons undone and the shirt hanging out and his neckerchief nowhere to be seen. He’s casual. He’s just there to spend time with his friends.  
  
And that’s fine. Perfectly fine.  
  
But it doesn’t explain why a hot, stifling rage suddenly burns hot through Arthur’s veins. Why he’s suddenly longing to scream at his foster sister and her maid that Merlin is _his_ , that they can’t have him, that they will never have him.  
  
It’s completely nonsensical and unreasonable and illogical. Merlin is his only in that he’s Arthur’s manservant. It’s not as if he’s Arthur’s lover. Merlin can be friends with whoever he wants.  
  
But as Arthur watches the girls coo over him, the rage continues to melt his insides until he feels like his bones are made of molten lava. There is nothing left of him except this unexplainable rage, this fury, this – oh god. He’s not. He can’t be.  
  
But he is.  
  
Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot and Heir Apparent…is jealous. Over a skinny, scrawny, incompetent, snarky, messy manservant.  
  
A manservant with the most startling blue eyes and the toothiest grin, which is never bestowed upon Arthur because Arthur doesn’t earn it. He doesn’t deserve it. Merlin only smiles his widest, happiest, most gorgeous smile at people who deserve it.  
  
And just like that, Arthur wants to curl up in a ball under his blankets and whimper until everything fades away into nothingness.  
  
But as he looks into Merlin’s clear blue gaze and takes in those razor sharp cheekbones, Arthur realizes he would never do it anyway. He’d never do anything that would take him away from Merlin.  
  
It’s official. Arthur has lost his goddamn mind.  
  
He barely remembers mumbling out the news about the diplomat to Morgana before he spins on his heel and takes off through the door. He supposes he is doing something that takes him away from Merlin. But it’s not his fault. He’s gone insane, and Merlin can’t know, he can’t ever know.  
  
And as he strides purposefully through the castle corridors, images flash before him like a dream – Merlin getting locked in the stocks to help him out; Merlin drinking out of a poisoned chalice in order to save him from doing it; Merlin using his magic time and time again to save Arthur’s life even though he knows what will happen if he’s caught. And then the memories become blurred with fantasy – Merlin laughing at a joke that Arthur has told like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard; Merlin smiling that wide, toothy, beautiful smile at him, _just_ for him; Merlin pressing his lips to his; Merlin naked and rumpled and dark eyed beneath him as Arthur trails his fingertips over Merlin’s bare skin –   
  
Arthur breaks into a run, a furious dash through the corridors and out into the training yard.  
  
It’s the only place Arthur will find any peace.  
  
And so he trains. He throws himself into his swordplay, into the calisthenic exercises he pushes himself through everyday without fail. As the days go past, he keeps his knights training so hard that they begin to fashion some new nicknames for him. _His Royal Assness_ is the politest out of all of them.  
  
But Arthur can’t help it. He _has_ to do this. If he doesn’t, he’ll think, and thinking is the reason he’s losing his mind. He can’t allow that.  
  
Training doesn’t allow him to think, especially this kind of training. This training is long and hard and doesn’t leave room for thought outside of it. But when Arthur crashes into his bed at night, Merlin weaves in and out of his dreams until Arthur wakes up wishing that it was real, that it was tangible.  
  
It’s been over a week since Arthur walked in on Merlin with Morgana and Gwen, and he’s currently practice-fighting one of his knights on horseback. He’s not thinking. He’s just reacting, letting his instincts take over. And his instincts are never wrong.  
  
Well, almost never.  
  
Maybe like fifty percent.  
  
What? It’s not like Arthur can be perfect. That’s too much work for anyone, much less a prince.  
  
And then out of the corner of his eye Merlin spots a thin figure with a mop of jet black hair.  
  
No. There is no way in hell.  
  
Arthur has purposefully been finding tasks and chores for Merlin to do away from him and away from his chambers. And today he told Merlin stiffly that he had no use for him and he had best see what assistance Gaius needed.  
  
Apparently Gaius had no need for Merlin either, because Merlin is standing right there, leaning on the gates to the practice yard, dark hair blowing in the wind as he watches Arthur like it’s the only thing he’ll ever want to do. And as his gaze locks with Arthur, Arthur once again feels heat coursing through his veins. But instead of molten lava, this is more like burning embers sparking through his blood.  
  
And then there’s a horrible, bone-crushing jolt, and Arthur is suddenly flat on his back in the dirt.  
  
Arthur fell off his fucking horse. His opponent took advantage of his distraction and knocked him clean off. And all because he couldn’t look away from Merlin’s gaze.  
  
At least he isn’t wearing full armor. That would really hurt.  
  
He hears Merlin yelling Arthur’s name, but Arthur is really hoping it’s just his imagination. Because the last thing he needs right now is for Merlin to see him lying on the ground like the town drunk.  
  
Goddammit. Arthur hates his life right now. He really does.  
  
But even against the glare of the sun, Arthur can see Merlin shoving his way through the knights and dropping to his knees beside the prince.  
  
“Are you alive? Are you all right? Arthur, speak to me – speak to me, Arthur!” His voice is tight with panic and fear, and Arthur’s stomach clenches.  
  
“I’m alive,” Arthur manages to grumble. “If I was dead I wouldn’t be hurting nearly as much as I do, would I?”  
  
A look of relief flashes across Merlin’s face, and then he sits back on his heels. “That’s what you get for falling off your horse, isn’t it?”  
  
“Are you seriously giving me shit while I’m lying here half-fucking-dead in the dirt?”  
  
“You’re not half-dead,” Merlin says reasonably. “If you were, you wouldn’t be able to yell at me.”  
  
Arthur yanks his gloves off so he can make a very rude gesture to Merlin.  
  
“See? You have all your motor skills. You’re just fine.”  
  
The other knights help Merlin get Arthur to his feet, and Merlin escorts Arthur back to his rooms while explaining, after Arthur asks what the fuck he was doing in the training yard anyway, that he just wanted to watch the training on account of all the rumors that Arthur has become even more of a hard-ass lately. He gets Arthur out of what bit of armor he wore today, and forces him into a hot bath steeped with herbs to help with pain.  
  
“You’re a bit bruised,” Merlin informs him as he pokes and prods at Arthur’s muscles. “Might want to keep an eye on your left shoulder, it’s the one you landed on.”  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” Arthur grits out. “It’s not the first time I’ve fallen off a horse.”  
  
“But it’s the first time you’ve fallen off a horse in quite awhile,” Merlin points out. “All because you were looking at me.” He flashes a grin, but it’s not the toothy grin Arthur wants. It’s the cheeky grin that precedes a Merlin-esque comment. “Surely I’m not _that_ distracting.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to have this conversation no matter the circumstances, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to have this conversation while he’s bruised and battered and soaking naked and vulnerable in a bath.  
  
“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” Merlin informs him as he helps Arthur out of the tub. Arthur is stiff as fuck despite the hot water, and he really didn’t need Merlin to tell him that tomorrow is going to suck to high hell.  
  
Which he promptly tells Merlin.  
  
Merlin shrugs. “Just reminding you about why you shouldn’t be falling off a horse.”  
  
“It’s not like I did it on purpose!” Arthur snaps, even as Merlin begins helping him dress.  
  
“I didn’t say you did.”  
  
“It was implied.”  
  
“That was an accident. I meant to imply that you’re stupid.”  
  
Arthur whips around, his shirt hanging off his shoulders, so he can glare warningly at Merlin. “Excuse me? And how the fuck am _I_ stupid?”  
  
“It seems pretty stupid to be staring at me so long that you get knocked flat on your ass,” Merlin says simply. “Because you _were_ staring. Why? What about me was so damn distracting?”  
  
Oh god. They _are_ having this conversation. It’s already here and settling in for dinner and wine, and there isn’t a goddamn thing Arthur can do about it.  
  
Arthur looks away, gazing out the window as though hoping to spot his last hope flying away. “Everything,” he finally says softly. “Everything about you is distracting. You’ve been distracting me for weeks now. Since the last hunting trip. Maybe even before that. Yeah, definitely before that.”  
  
He’s terrified. He doesn’t want to look at Merlin, doesn’t want to see the disgust or reproach in his crystal blue eyes. He doesn’t want to hear whatever it is that Merlin is going to say now. Because Merlin has to say something, and Arthur knows it won’t be what he’s been dreaming about for weeks. Because he now knows what he’s been missing from the hunting trip. The intimacy. The knowledge that it’s just the two of them, and that whatever happens they’re there for each other. That they love and care for each other. And that that’s enough, that that’s all they’ll ever need.  
  
The burning embers seem to fizzle sadly at the realization that they’re about to be put out for good.  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Merlin demands. “All this time…you tell me everything else. Why not this?”  
  
Arthur’s gaze snaps back to Merlin’s. The other boy is staring at him, open and understanding and welcoming, if a touch annoyed. “I didn’t – I – you don’t feel the same way. You can’t possibly.”  
  
“No?” Merlin raises an eyebrow. “It never occurred to you that I was literally hanging between life and death and I still found a way to keep you alive?”  
  
“I mean, of course it occurred to me – “  
  
“But the reason never popped into your head.”  
  
“I mean, I wondered, but – “  
  
Merlin shakes his head, but it’s a fond gesture. “You’re an idiot,” he declares. “I’ve known all along, but of course it’d take you ages to figure it out.”  
  
“Figure what out?” Arthur feels as though his brain is sluggish, working overtime to try to catch up to this sudden turn of events.  
  
With an exasperated huff, Merlin grabs Arthur by the shoulders – one of which is becoming very tender so Arthur emits a little squeak and that is the _only_ reason, dammit – and hauls him against his body. Before Arthur can so much as let out a breath, Merlin’s lips are suddenly pressed against his. It takes a second for Arthur to realize what is happening, but suddenly his body unfreezes and his fingers are tangling up in Merlin’s hair, his tongue begging entrance at Merlin’s lips. Merlin’s hands are on his chest, and Arthur can feel his perfect fingers stroking down his bare torso.  
  
As they break apart, those embers that were so readily fizzling out are now a roaring fire, triumphant and happy. And as Arthur cups Merlin’s face in his hands, Merlin suddenly smiles – a full-toothed happy smile. Just for him. All for him.


End file.
